You Synesthete! You Poet!
There is an art to the
workings of the senses.
Sight, touch, sound,
vibrant colors all around.
She sees the color magenta
when she thinks of
her childhood.
She hears thirds and sevenths
when she feels his
warm touch.
A harpist’s plucking
gives her a taste
of eternity.
Live blissfully, words whisper.
You synesthete! You poet!
Open your eyes....
It’s only lies, but aren’t they
beautiful? Don’t they
shine? Why must you feel
so behind?
“I want my senses to stop
tricking me,” she answers,
but they’ve already turned
and laughed.
Pain is stale cigarettes.
Loneliness, a deep indigo
smeared across a rainy sky.
She sits and ponders why
when it thunders
she is reminded of headaches.
Love is a smooth black pencil
upon beige pages of a
leather-bound journal.
Everything else is just reality....
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